


Homesick

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Drabble, I don't know, I need to get some help, Kind of Just Happened, M/M, My small son, One-Shot, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sad, Short, Why do I keep hurting him like this?, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, i love him so much, idk what I was thinking, is that a thing?, quotefic, sad bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19791121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: “I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full, my body loved, and my soul understood.”—Melissa CoxORBucky Barnes remembers bits of his life before he was the Soldier, and aches for a home he no longer has.





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> I just read this quote on Tumblr, and it resonated so well with Bucky, I just had to write something about this.  
> And I'm sorry for this nonsensical onslaught, but this is my way of coping with Post-Endgame depression.  
> If the R*sso brothers won't give me a happy ending for Steve and Bucky, then fuck it, I'll write them a happy ending myself.  
> Let's do it baby, I know the law.  
> Enjoy! x

Home.

What a peculiar little thing, isn’t it? Almost everyone has some version of it; whether it’s a house made of brick and mortar, or a person who loves you completely and wholly, maybe even a car that shudders and hitches at every turn but always provides shelter when needed. Most people have some kind of a home. I am not one of those people.

I don’t know what a home is, I don’t have one. I have _shelter_ , but it’s not a home. It’s some shabby, abandoned house at the edge of a sleepy little town somewhere deep in Rivergrove, Oregon. I don’t know who it belongs to, I am just squatting in it; it’s rundown and it’s old, and it’s smells of old wood and mold— a horrific combination, really. But the windows are all boarded up and there’s a chain-link fence cutting off the property from the outside world, not that there’s anything to make contact with. Not for miles, anyway. It’s good enough for me.

The nearest town is a fifteen minutes walk from here, and the children of that town think this house is haunted— it isn’t, but I’m not about to announce that to anyone; I need this place, at least for a few days, until the frightening thunderstorms in this area stop and I can pass on.

I don’t know where I am these days— of course, I know that I’m in Oregon, but I don’t know why I’m here or where I’m supposed to go next. I’ve been running for what feels like years, but I’m sure it has only been a few months, at most. I’ve been running ever since I rescued Captain America— my first failed mission, from the Potomac River in Washington, and I haven’t stopped running since. I do know who I’m running from— I have a full list, and on top of that list, is HYDRA.

I decided a few months ago— the first decision that I remember having made by myself: that I am not going back to HYDRA; I most certainly will not go back under cryo; I will not be used as a powerful, menacing weapon; I will never be the Winter Soldier. No, never again. My helplessness has already caused too much damage, and I will not let it be my future. I will not be the Winter Soldier.

I will become one thing, though; and that is a person— a normally functioning person. Sure, I will never have the white-picket fence, or a golden retriever, or a trophy wife and two perfect kids. But I will be human; I will not be a Soviet assassin— not anymore. I am struggling to become human again, and I am somewhat succeeding— or so I like to believe.

I’ve started gaining my memories back— or at least some ghost of them. It’s an excruciatingly slow journey, but it is still progress. I know who I am now— or rather, who I once was: my name is James Buchanan Barnes; I was a Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment, and my serial number was 32557038; I had two younger sisters named Rebecca and Elizabeth, and a younger brother named Philip; my parents were Winifred and George Barnes; I had a best friend who I would have laid down my life for, his name was Steven Grant Rogers, he is Captain America; and I was twenty-seven years old when I died.

But that’s not all I remember. My memories aren’t concrete; they’re hazy, and they flicker around my head a lot, and half of them aren’t real— they’re illusions caused by the severe dehydration and malnutrition that I’ve experienced in the few months. But I do remember some of the things that have happened in my sad, short life.

Clear as day, I remember the fall that ended my life as I’d known it; it was on a cold, windy morning in mid-January, 1945. I remember what it felt like when my fingers grazed Steve’s gloved ones right before I plummeted hundreds of feet through the air. I remember what I thought in that moment. I looked at Steve as I fell and thought, ‘Thank God, it’s me and not you,’ I think I was in love with Steve. I remember the expression on his face in that moment— he wanted to jump after me. I’m relieved that he didn’t.

I remember when I woke up in a terrifying HYDRA facility somewhere in the Soviet, with the fat little face of Dr. Arnim Zola hovering above me, smiling and welcoming me to consciousness. I remember the awful smell of that even more awful room; blood, metal, leather, burnt flesh, iron, sweat, and so much more blood— most of it was my own.

And I remember the pain— that more clear and evident than anything else. It was emotional, physical, and psychological— any kind of pain you can imagine and name; I’m certain I went through it during those few months I was held at the HYDRA base, being trained and turned into the terrifying menace that the whole world knows as the Winter Solider.

If it’s not already clear as daylight; I don’t like the Winter Solider. I don’t like him for many reasons, most of which stem from who— no, _what_ he is: a monster. The Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s deadliest, most precious weapon, is a monster. I am not him. Not anymore. I am James Buchanan Barnes; I am a good man, a good son, a good brother, and a good friend; I like dancing, and I secretly like it when Steve steps right on my toes when I’m teaching him to dance; I am a really good shot; I am a Pisces; I like starry nights and long walks along the coast; I am a Dodgers supporter; and I am not a monster.

There’s another thing that I remember: how much I screamed. When they hacked away at my arm— or rather, at what was left of it after the hundred-something-feet fall; when they replaced it with their terrible weapon; when they conducted procedures that made it feel like they’d yanked my brains out through my nostrils and shoved them into a blender. I screamed so much and for so long that I made myself lose my voice for a couple of weeks— I think that’s why it’s so gruff now, because I don’t think Steve’s Bucky had a voice like mine. His was probably soft, much more gentle— mine wasn’t.

Most of the time during those “sessions” as Zola called them; I remember screaming for Steve. I knew, even back then, that it was stupid, futile— he wasn’t going to come for me, nobody was. They didn’t even know I was alive. But I screamed for him anyway, I screamed and I screamed, and I screamed until the clamped my mouth shut with a leather gag. After that, I dreamed… I dreamed of Steve rescuing me from that Hell on Earth, I dreamed of him coming for me like he’d come for me in Austria. After a while, I stopped dreaming, as well.

The point of Zola’s procedures on me was to turn me into the Soldier, and it’s my greatest pride to acknowledge how I made their attempts impossible for _months_. Because I held on to who I was, no matter how much they tried to make me forget, because I was the man that Steve Rogers loved. Holding on to my life, and remembering it, not succumbing to their tortures worked up until they figured out that I wasn’t holding onto the memory of _me_ , I was holding onto the memory of Steve. Then they erased _him_ from my mind, and succeeded in their procedures: I forgot who I was, I became their mindless weapon.

But then that stupid son of a bitch on the helicarrier said those words to me, and they rained down on me, like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to an already-fractured glass surface. Captain American said, “ _I’m with you to the end of the line_ ,” and in an instant, my brain halted, and I remembered so much. The Winter Soldier tried desperately to regain control, but James Barnes proved to be much stronger than the Soviet assassin. He fought and wrestled and resisted until I remembered the same words tumbling from my lips almost eighty years ago.

I remembered a quiet, bright morning in a soft, small bed. I remembered the feeling of Steve’s head on my chest, and I remembered the press of his lips against my bare skin. It was all psychosomatic, but I smelled stale coffee and cigarettes. There were potted peonies lining the outside of the windowsill and their smell was soft and pleasant. There was an easel near the window with a paper canvas sitting atop, bearing a beautiful charcoal drawing of Brooklyn.

And it was the onslaught of those memories that had made me halt for just a minute, and I stared down at Steve. I remembered his face from the past, thin and sickly, but vibrant with a wide smile and eyes glinting with happiness. But before I— or rather, _James_ could react, that metal beam fell on to the floor of the helicarrier. I held on to a stronger beam, but Steve couldn’t, so I watched him fall. He looked at me until his eyes closed and he plummeted through the air. I was a little late in reacting, a little late in helping Steve, but I did it anyway. I’m proud of that too.

But when I pulled him out of the water and onto dry land, I saw his bruised and bleeding face, and realized that I could not stay a moment longer, not until I could put an end to the Winter Soldier. I realized that Steve would have to wait a little more for a reunion with the man he’d lost decades ago— because that man had not been me, not at that time, at least.

But now, I was changing. I was making myself better, day by day, piece by piece, turning myself back into the man who I used to be. The man that Steve Rogers loved and the man who loved Steve Rogers back.

I don’t know if we truly loved one another, because my memories aren’t concrete. I can’t be sure whether or not what my brain is flashing at me is real or an illusion. But I know this, I wouldn’t have saved Captain America, if James Barnes hadn’t loved Steve Rogers.

When it comes to the nature of Steve and his Bucky’s relationship, or when it comes to the lowlights of Bucky’s life, my memory betrays me. I don’t remember much, if at all. There are tiny glimpses of the whole twenty-something years of Bucky’s life, like I’m watching a highlight reel that is private, that I’m not supposed to be witnessing.

But there are so many _feelings_ that are just there— lingering in front of my mind’s eye but dancing away, just out of reach. There’s the phantom memory of my mother reaching up to kiss my cheeks every single morning; of waking my brother up each morning by tickling him, which always led to me and him wrestling around our shared bedroom; of waking my beautiful sisters by kissing their foreheads and gently calling their names until they were smiling happily at me; of having my father pat my shoulder with pride and give me a smile when I set the table for breakfast; of greeting Steve with a bright smile, having him hug me with a bashful grin; of Sarah Rogers kissing my left cheek every day before she left for work, and feeling pride in how she fully trusted me to take care of Steve in her wake.

These are all distant feelings. Like the memory of a memory. I can’t recall ever being loved so much by a person, let alone eight. I look down at my body now, and I see nothing but pale skin marred with scars: bullet wounds, stab wounds, shock marks, you name a kind of scar, and you’ll most likely find it on my body. There’s not an inch of me that bears the reminder of somebody else loving me, there’s only reminders of humans hating me, and treating me as if I was never one of them— they treated me as a weapon, prying and prodding, and never with a human touch.

If Sarah Rogers and Winifred Barnes ever kissed my cheeks, their lipstick stains have been replaced by bruises. If I ever kissed the foreheads my younger sisters, then the feel of their skin against my lips is replaced by cuts and the taste of blood. If I ever play-wrestled with my brother, then the feeling of that has been replaced by fistfights with enemies. If I ever hugged Steve or even kissed him, then the feeling of holding him is replaced by cold hatred of the Winter Soldier.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall the feeling of coming home after school; to my Ma’s beautiful voice singing “I Left My Sugar in the Rain” while she cooked in the kitchen. A few years after that, returning home from a long, cold, miserable day working at the docks, to Steve having made his own variations of oatmeal, all while singing “Everybody Loves My Baby” completely off-key— he never could sing, he was really bad at it, his asthma always got him going even before he could reach the chorus.

These are the memories that I think I have. They don’t feel like they’re mine. They’re more like the memories of a man who was loved by all, not a monster who was feared. But God, I love these memories— when I’m sitting in the dark, in the cold all by myself; these memories bring me psychosomatic warmth. They light me up from within with a fire that’s been tended to with love and care. These memories bring me hope that someday, I just might get to feel them.

And they also make me feel homesick… for a place I am not too sure ever even existed— not for me, at least. A home: where my mother waits for me to come bounding back; where she kisses my cheek and runs her fingers through my hair; where my brother waits for me to play with him, and my sisters wait for me to tell them stories; where Steve waits for me with a dimpled grin and a witty comment; where he gives me a kiss and tells me he loves me.

I am homesick for a place I don’t even remember ever being in. I am homesick for a place where I can smile, laugh, and feel safe; where my belly is full of food, and my heart full of love; where Steve Rogers exists with a smile only for me, where he kisses me in greeting and in goodbye, where he's next to me, and his heartbeat is my lullaby; where all five other members of the Barnes family exist happily and safely, and with a table setting for me.

I am homesick for the home that James Buchanan Barnes had and someday... I hope I can have that place too.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this was so trash? I tried my Best™ :(   
> I hope something else in the future will be better.  
> Constructive Criticism, Comments, and Kudos are always appreciated :)  
> Thank you for reading x


End file.
